Gentle Platonic Touch — An Article That Resonates With Me of Late. Also: Dinah.

Note: The first bit of this blog post copy/pasted from my own Facebook, with minor modifications.

By Mark Greene: The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men's Lives is a Killer

I posted this link in a private group on what turned out to be the day before my beloved Dinah was discovered, via the nosebleeds, to have a cancerous tumor and was consequently spared any suffering................on her fourteenth birthday. Always a poetic occurrence this last, as any Shakespeare lover will know.

It's possible I doted on "the Bear" some. I'm not a natural dog lover. The Bear was, and is, pretty much THE exception. Docile (not hyper), melodic (not just yappy and loud), capable of learning certain things (like how to dodge people's feet in the kitchen), so delightfully soft, and a true love for her world that shone in her deep, brown eyes. I gave her rather too many kisses, snuggles and hugs for at least my mother's taste. (Especially since I largely ignore the other dogs. Not a dog person, like I say. Please try not to hate.) I wanted to keep my head buried in her soft shoulders for good chunks of time at once, the way I had done with Linus the cat in years prior, but Dinah wasn't quite built that way. It was always a little bit physically awkward.

And I can only really speak on snuggling pets in such a manner.

I ain't ever had a girlfriend at a month and change short of 28. I'm an only child. My mother pretty routinely refuses me when I want a cuddle, hug, head scratch, and so on, usually claiming to be "irritable" or some such thing. (We'll exchange hugs many nights — some of them sincere in the moment.) I don't even attempt to approach my father for such things; he ain't interested. Lately my aunt in Chicago has hugged me with sharply decreasing frequency; I don't think we made any contact last visit, not even upon arriving or leaving. (Maybe in part because the trips/visits have become so routine?) At least my one cousin and her husband give hugs when we visit from ~350 miles apart. Will they still when we're merely on opposite sides of the same metro, meeting for a meal every week (as has been discussed)?

Pretty much all I had to turn to for snuggling (my choice form of gentle platonic touch) was Dinah. I don't feel the connection with the other dogs to snuggle them. This leaves me nearly completely............touchless.

It's not liberating. It's fucking cold and isolating.

I get by, sort of, on the "virtual touch" of ‪ASMR‬ videos, played with headphones on. Read the post below this one, if you haven't already, for more on that. As fine as that simulation of an actual human being around me may be, there remains a gaping void in my living. The society I call home does not like touch. I wonder how it feels to the customers I serve at my job when I manage to make the slightest contact with their hands as I hand them their change. It feels.....a LITTLE awkward, right? I have dared to make the briefest hand-to-hand contact, just to complete an ordinary business transaction. Is that okay?

Are we?

I am decidedly not. Now, minus the Bear*, more than ever.



*I realize there's a band with this name; sadly, I don't know their music.

****



Somewhere in the first night AD (after Dinah), I found the actions — but not the words, so much — to make the Bear my profile pic (linked above) on the 'Book, and also to slowly post captionless photos from different points in her life. A couple of Facebook friends "liked" the pictures as I posted them; I wonder if they understood what I was trying to convey at the time......? Anyway, I've decided to include here the pictures of the only dog I've ever loved. Now with some captions.

My angel.....gone home.....

(...not that I believe in that kind of thing, but, you know...)

Baby Bear. December 2000. When cassettes were a dominant audio format in the house of Adams. (Also, the endless election recall. But, DINAH!)





October 2001. One who knows to stop and smell the flowers. (It occurs to me, the physical photographs that I scanned might be stamped with their "developed" date, not their "taken" date.)





September 2002.



July 2004. Champion of the pillows. Also, ha ha, Ikea project on the floor...



June, 2006.



July 31, 2006. Ten minutes after this picture, I was in a car bound for the airport to England for the only time in my life so far.



That autumn, I let my own beard grow out.

September 21, 2007. So soft.......



December 5, 2007.



January 31, 2009. "Yorkie and Porky", I called them. ("Yorkie"'s name is Stella.) Later, Dinah slimmed down, and newer mini-schnauzer Teddy turned out to be the "porky" one.



July 4, 2009. Hiding from the fireworks on American Independence Day. Only this once did she ever go in the closet like this.



I love those eyes.



Flash forward a couple years, she's lucky if she can hear anything at all.

December 24, 2009. Newton and Dinah. Life is good.



February 14, 2010. PASTA NIGHT! The pasta that hasn't already been served to humans is in the white colander on the counter.



June 3, 2011. Biscuit?



June 11, 2011. Breakfast? Dinner?



January 6, 2014. In prep for selling the house, all the carpet was done away with in favor of hardwood. Soft places for dogs became mighty precious. Kinda like Dinah.



Her final photo appearance: February 22, 2014.

Speak Our Consciences in a Soft, Sharp Whisper

(Previously: Speak of it Only in a Soft, Sharp Whisper (September 2012), and Speak of it in a Soft, Sharp Whisper Some More (August 2013))

Two passing thoughts on the subject of meridian, or "ASMR", before I get to the meat of what's in my mind:

• I have never been terribly keen on describing the feeling of meridian as a "tingle". "Tingle", in my mind, suggests a sort of neutrally extraneous sensation — something like the strongly minty, lingering taste in one's mouth after using a good mouthwash. Meridian, I think, is better described as a euphoric PULSE or spasm. But, I suppose a two-word, four-or-five-syllable phrase is a bit awkward in casual conversation and YouTube comments, isn't it.....

• Although the sensation is more easily triggered on my right side — that is to say, the right side of my back, usually — it tends to be more strongly felt on the left side, once the left ear has heard enough for the sensation to sort of "break through". I guess my left needs to be "primed" a moment before it kicks into full gear. If the "video" to which I've meristurbated (for those who missed it in part two, link above, this original word means "indulged in meridian") has been sufficiently effective, I'll sometimes be unable to fully lean back into my chair without the euphoria in my left mid-lower back asserting itself, a full minute or two after the video has finished. Somehow, my right prefers it quick and immediate; it's yet to linger post-trigger the way it does on the left.

Now, then...

There's a quality, or a trend, I've noticed of late in my lonely, after-hours meridian pursuits, and it rather ties in with my personal politics, which I've revealed on this blog on a number of occasions. It is this: the videos that I'm finding provide the strongest and most effective triggers, and therefore the videos I'm pursuing and "favoriting", are the ones that are crystal clear and unfiltered — breaths go directly in the ear, so strongly that I can practically smell the ASMRtist's breath. Also, I can easily hear and know when they are moving from one ear to the other; they're not just staying totally in one place while they deliver a line or two.

Summarily: The videos that best simulate an actual person being with me, the viewer/listener, are the best.

Try this one on for sighs (sic). (Embedding disabled by request: Air Light - Inaudible, unintelligible binaural whisper 3D)

Despite the Zappa-esque artistic style where different recorded bits are repeated and overdubbed throughout the piece (Zappa's "Freak Out" especially comes to mind on the grounds that I get meridian off "It Can't Happen Here", which has an up-close backup vocal in the right channel; "No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no, man you guys are gonna be SAFE, everything's COOL."), it is delightfully obvious that the recordings are done by an actual human being. (Not that some ASMRtists aren't human, mind you.) She audibly moves from directly in one ear, to more the back of the neck, closer back to the ear, then to the other ear, and so on. I smell her breath at certain junctures with P and K sounds; as poorly as our language puts names to scents, her breath is simply authentically human — not wholly foul, nor quite the aroma of a good meal freshly prepared in the kitchen — just simply human. Perhaps I remember the smell from somewhere in my past — a casual, unmemorable encounter in my far too numerous days of academia wherein I was in enough distance of a young girl speaking to catch a whiff. It's lively. And real. The combination of humanity, artistic endeavor, and, of course, super-effective meridian triggers, make this quite probably my all-time favorite "merideo" (ASMR video).

And so my political side flares up. Where are all the people in my life who would be willing to speak to me so intimately and closely? Our culture doesn't quite encourage that, does it? Occasionally, somewhat rarely, I feel meridian wholly by accident when being spoken to normally from about arm's length, as happened while I was receiving instruction on working with produce on the opening day of the discount grocery at which I'm working for about three more weeks until I move to greater Nashville. How did I manage to feel meridian in a joyous, happening atmosphere like that of a store's grand opening? I don't know. But, anomalies like that aside, nobody's exactly going out of their way to be in an intimate setting and tone with me, are they? And it's totally weird and un-American to sort of "nudge" anyone in that direction. Ideal meridian conditions do tend to lean toward the same kind of conditions that are often reserved for romantic endeavors — two people otherwise alone, in a close, quiet space. If I've ever been part of anyone's romantic endeavors, they have failed to tell me about it in all my nearly twenty-eight earth years.

I'm reminded all over again of how I'm completely alone and how our society seems to encourage that kind of thing. Get a steady job sitting at a desk all day. Drive to and from that job — the lone occupant in your vehicle. Squabble with your spouse, kids and parents at home; your connection is purely biological. Modern western culture, with all its endless flavors, passing technology and varieties, has pretty much fragmented us as people. We see too many differences between each of us for us to overcome them, and we don't make good connections anymore. At best, I get generally friendly people giving generally friendly greetings and offers on which they'll never follow through. We're just going through the motions, cogs in the machine, our teeth slowly eroding.

I wonder about the lives of the ASMRtists. The ASMRtist ranks are pretty well dominated by women — just an occasional male along the way — making videos in their own rooms or studios, with only themselves in them. What kind of families do they have? Are they romantically involved with anyone? They most all seem like they could easily sway a mate or two from the crowd, such kindly faces with sweet, soft voices. Do they often get to experience an actual live-action trigger from a human being in the same room? Will I get to meet anybody like this? ASMRtists are spread all over the globe. Air Light, who undoubtedly knows and understands the basic mechanics of meridian, is......Ukrainian, I believe....? I follow people in Russia, Deutschland, the UK, Australia, and probably some Americans, although that doesn't exactly narrow anything down. Is anyone near Nashville? Meet for a malt at Mike's some time?

I'm a lonely meridiot—
fringe and unfocused
a random poet
a runaway train
without a platform
a purple square
on a Rubik's Cube
a round peg
on an unstrung guitar
I got a
        way with words
a cat
      burglar
in an open desert
I adapt to survive
but can I live?

Um.......what the hell just happened to me? All right, yeah. So, I think I may attempt to produce a piece of ASMRtwork for YouTube. I may just read this series of blog posts. My microphone is horribly cheap — and naked. Listen for breaths that pierce. And hopefully trigger. (I have, in the past, gotten meridian from my own voice on "Thirst (Ambrosia)". Is this okay?)

Swell Saturday, cyber citizens,
~C.A., from Chicago~

Going on Noon

Coming soon to a SoundCloud near you. (Providing said SoundCloud is behaving properly.)

Good morning hills
so deeply green
it takes some rain
to make that scene
so glad we made it
through that torrent
went so long
felt abhorrent
but it's all done now
at least for a little while
it's time to rise
and shine like a smile

all the damp and grey
feeds a perfect day
time to run and play
strife makes life

it takes some rain
to make things bright
the sun alone
got finite might
harmonic balance
meets desire
we gotta try it
lift us higher

if we sail too high
we will lose our minds
and if we stay too low
...well, I think we know.....

across the boulevard
folks are stretched so hard
they play their calling card
join in

Screens (draft)

This new song is posted and incorporated into the DEMOS set above!

waterfalls over rocky walls
I've only seen
them on a screen
exotic animals beyond the malls
mere projections on a machine
and war and poverty
recurring themes
they may well be
where I can't see
and if there were none
just simulation
well that would be
all right with me

but

don't let love be a media manip
a distant ego trip
on open arms and lips
I'm not at all convinced
the real thing exists
I'm a mister who's missed being missed

don't let love be a photoshop piece
on feelings long deceased
forever unreleased
I'd be more serene
if I could just feel instead of seein'
it on a screen

a face to face
warm embrace
I've only seen
it on a screen
a shared space
a shared grace
a fantasy
it seems to me
the folks I meet
on these city streets
they barely greet
they got no heat
my local scene
it's more routine
they're all staring into tiny screens

oh!

don't let love be a media manip
a distant ego trip
on open arms and lips
I've never been convinced
the real thing exists
I'm a mister who's missed being missed

don't let love be a photoshop piece
on feelings long deceased
forever unreleased
I'd be more serene
if I could just feel instead of seein'
it on a screen

who am I talking to
is my point piercing through
we need to see
empathy
a good foundation
for new relations
so we may be
a society
I hope you'll pardon
my intervention
but we are more than
two dimensions
when we start seeing
into our beings
we will begin our minds' ascension

don't let love be a photoshop piece
these feelings will not cease
until they are released
I'll be more serene
when I can fully feel instead of seein'
it on a screen

don't let love be a media manip
a distant ego trip
on dreamt-up arms and lips
I'm not yet convinced
the real thing exists
I'm a mister who's missed being kissed

and I wonder
when I'm gone
will I be missed!

Eight Further Favorite Albums

The Beatles - Rubber Soul

Cyberfriend Wim Oudijk's post and subsequent thread on Facebook ⒜ inspired me to compose a new "eight favorite albums" list after nearly two years, and ⒝ let me know that I had yet to include anything by the fabs. I think this last is because I was trying more to showcase my writing and display my eerily balanced love of musics mainstream and lesser known. I figured within the depths of my conscience that no one really needs to read anything more about the Beatles; they've heard and read it all. But, I think of the younger generation and wonder what they know about the fabs, even as a "Grammy Salute" airs on the network television in the next room. So, I pick a Beatles album to submit for this list, and it's a toss-up between this solid, varied songwriting showcase and the one that followed, Revolver.

"It's so fine; it's sunshine..."

Perry Leopold - Christian Lucifer

Acid folk at its finest. Of course, I'm a sucker for themes of subverting religion. Combine that with extensive lyricism (the lyrics are included in the liner notes and MUST be read) and drench it in lysergia, and we have a true, captivating listening "Journey".

"Eye am free
From the bondage
Eye am one
Within my kingdom..."

The Association - Birthday

Ever slightly psych-tinged harmony pop, and such fine harmony pop it is. Great, heavenly songs and sounds.

"I took off my watch and found I have all the time in the world..."

Ivy - Long Distance

Something a little newer here. This is pretty much pure pop music and production from 2001, with tinges of a vintage hip-hop sound and such wonderful dreamy French vocals. Looking at AMG to verify the year this came out, I have to disagree with the review, which dismisses this as "trendy". Some of the songwriting may be a little iffy, sure ("While We're in Love" comes to mind), but this is just so well produced — dreamy, melodic, poppy without being a clone of everything pop in the third millennium — everything I dig in an audio experience. The trumpet on some songs is a nice touch.

"At the edge of the ocean, we can start over again..."

The Firesign Theatre - I Think We're All Bozos on This Bus

Spoken word/counter-culture comedy, anyone? This trip to the Future from 1971 is unique. I suspect most people lack the facility to appreciate a work of art like this, but within the particular realm of spoken word that only Firesign Theatre occupy, they were at the top of their game here.

"We're glad you made it! Welcome to the Future!"

Kaleidoscope - Tangerine Dream

An inexplicable omission from my previous lists, and a staple of classic British pop-psychedelia. There's kind of a childlike storytelling to some of these songs, even when the subject turns to plane crashes or murder.

"And the king lived on his dreams — and died on them"

Gjallarhorn - Sjofn

Finnish folk music. Released in 2007. Heavenly vocals. So well done, and so good.

[This is where I usually include a quote from the album; sadly, I don't know the Finnish language enough to do so here.]

The Grateful Dead - American Beauty

Finally, for this "favorite albums" installment, I bring that truckin' home to the first album I ever knew by anybody, and an American beauty it is. Though best known for their decidedly self-indulgent live shows — legends in their own right — the Dead largely dispensed with jams for this album and concentrated on songwriting and great harmonies. They had taken a similar approach in their previous studio outing, "Workingman's Dead", which was a little folkier and maybe slightly country-tinged. As fine a collection of songs as that was, this 1970 release is as focused and "tight" as they got, and it is great. Anyone who would dismiss this album before they heard it, just because the Grateful Dead's name are on it, is a bloody fool and missing out on great stuff.

"When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me."

Pete Seeger 1919 - 2014

I suppose the day eventually had to come.

It's that kind of feeling we get with family pets, or maybe human family members. We always know it'll happen, yet we're still bummed when it does. That was a spiritual anchor, that knowledge that they were there. An anchor that kept us well-grounded and out of danger from floating unprotected in erratic waters. Suddenly, we need to know that we can swim — that we've gotten in some practice along the way. That anchor helped give us our swimming lessons.

I don't usually comment on celebrity deaths these days, or even most musician deaths that take a healthy bite of my 'Book feed, but I did want to acknowledge this one, some way, somehow.

"Social music" seems to have evolved into a completely different meaning from what it once was. Do we sing along in harmony at live shows much anymore? Maybe we all just sing to ourselves as we stream via cyberspace....? Sometimes I do. Not always. I can't remember clearly whether or not I was singing along when I spun "Viva la Quince Brigada", from "We Shall Overcome: The Complete Carnegie Hall Concert, June 8, 1963", for my 15k-point spin on Turntable.fm (itself a bygone trailblazer of sorts). I totally sang along with whatever I could at Psych Fest this past Friday, but even I couldn't hear me when I did, the bands and records were loud. Or maybe I just have a weak voice. I don't know. I have original songs — one man with one acoustic guitar; maybe you can tell me. I totally need to play open mics. I may not be sung along with — those really aren't the kind of songs I write — but at least there'll be a sort of gathering around. There's an open mic in town by me happening about now, as it's done every Tuesday for some years. At least, I think they still do it; I haven't gone to one in about two and a half years.....

I never came at all close to meeting the man in person. (What else is new?) I only sometimes tune in to true "folk" vibes amidst the psychedelic, the experimental, the smooth pop, the classical-style epics, and all the wondrous and absurd choices available to us in this age. But I know where we came from. I know where the "pop" in "pop(ular) music" is rooted. And I know one name and voice that was supreme in uniting the populace in harmony in every sense. In that way, we have gotten to know him, even if we didn't meet him personally.

I've been typing this up for a little while now this evening. As I was scrolling earlier, I saw Scott E. post a quote: “My job,” he said in 2009, “is to show folks there’s a lot of good music in this world, and if used right it may help to save the planet.” (from the New York Times) Seeger used his machine to surround hate and force it to surrender. We have this particularly global and powerful machine, or network of machines, at our command. How do we use it? What, or who, is surrendering in surround sound?

My copy of "We Shall Overcome" has inexplicably vanished, but my father's vinyl of 1979's "Circles and Seasons" remains. Here's an all-too contemporarily relevant song from that album (not my upload).

Peace and love for the man whose idea it was to change "I" to "We". *We* shall overcome. Some day.

(This was originally posted to Facebook. Minor edits brought it here.)

(Also, I'm including this song, which was suggested by a friend.)

NEW RECORDINGS!

Yes, friends, the rare time when I unleash newly recorded songs is upon us again. The new songs are embedded above.

"Spin" is rock-driving weirdness.

"Pointless Lament" is an easier pop affair which ideally has a longer instrumental break, but my solo guitar skills can only go so far.

"Unemployed on Labor Day" is a folk song — done, of course, with a pop beat. I hope the edits I performed on that one aren't too obvious.

And, finally, a yet-unnamed instrumental piece, of whose time signature I am uncertain; I think a "10" may be involved.

Enjoy!

"Thanksgivember"

Seems I haven't blogged in a little while. So as not to give the impression that I'm dead, here is what I was doing on Facebook in November, with edits kept to a minimum.

Oh, and do read that article I mention in the twenty-eighth entry. Many things I wanted to say on here but couldn't figure out how to express.

****

In past years, my cousin, among others, has done this "Thirty Days of Thanksgiving" thing wherein each day in November, the participant comes up with one thing for which they're thankful. Given the way I've been feeling of late, I'm going to at least make an attempt at this, just as my own exercise in knowing what's good. See how I fare. Starting with....

....well, how 'bout my aforementioned cousin, who did this the past two years and managed to keep most every entry engaging. Always one of my favorite people — an honestly loving fan of peace, cats, and all things good. Sense of humor, too. Hope to soon be in your metro, cous'. (I keep these statuses "public"; I can tag you if you like.)

Today on Thanksgiving Theatre:

The 1971 Alvarez acoustic six-string that is nestled inside my gig bag just behind me to my right. I feel so naked and incomplete when it's not with me. (I'm still incomplete, but I'm much better.) Sometimes I even get to play it, and I think I do pretty well, considering my wholly unorthodox style.

This fine extended Sunday in the land of Thanks: An extra hour of sleep. Pity it only happens once a year. This orb spins far too fast for my taste.

I will also cast a vote for bagels and lox.

Forth comes the fourth:

One of the few upsides of being forever unemployed is that I'm generally not bound to routinely rising at obscene hours of the morning. I honestly have no idea how I ever made it through middle and high school. College, though better with scheduling, remains an enigma in my head, despite seven and a half years of imprisonment there. My natural circadian rhythm seems to be that of a different planet, drifting through all bits of the Earth day through the days. I rather do prefer to stay true to (my) nature.

Harmonic Fifth:

In some years, and perhaps in some places, this would be Election Day here in the States. Traditionally, I've kept my politics on the blog and off of here, but I want today to acknowledge "the good guys" — the ones who believe in, and work toward, equality, opportunity, basic health and dignity, and peace, for everybody. (Here's a hint: Many of the "good guys" are not guys.) I do believe, conceivably naïvely, that we're going to see more of them in power fairly soon — maybe even enough of them to make a difference.

Sixth and stones may break for a few minutes:

The fact that I am done with college and academia. I speak from eight years and five or so varied majors of imprisonment there: It is a cold, lonely, isolating experience that is absolutely not worth twenty thousand a semester (unless you're really really really into being cold, lonely and isolated). Now I'm still cold, lonely and isolated, but at least I'm not rushing into deadlines for a price that a corporation would be lucky to afford (because corporations are totally people who go to college and everything). Something went terribly, terribly wrong with our education system somewhere along the line.

Unseventhed bread:

As sort of a follow-up to yesterday's entry in the "thankful" series (the relevance will become apparent), I remember my aunt Cookie. For the bulk of her story, you can check my archived blog entry. About half a year after I posted that entry, she was finally, mercifully, relieved from her earthly condition and memorialized in typically cold Chicagoland winter sunshine. She had no children, thus leaving my cousin and me as beneficiaries. Though my memory of her actual personality fades — she was sweet, I can say that much — my inheritance from her just about exactly satisfied my student loans, therefore relieving me of all but health insurance payments to haunt me all my days.

So, Cookie, many thanks for memories of happy times (I don't much mention them on the blog, but we had good holidays together in the old days) and for a significantly less dark time now. I hope you are enjoying peace and happiness in the next world, whatever it may be.

Livin' on th'eighth:

As long as I'm on aunts, I gotta shout out to my "main" one — my one remaining immediate aunt, who has stayed close with me and mine, lending graces, support, advice, and all things good through the years. Excellent host, award-winning care professional, mother of my cousin, and all-around solid-minded person. Also, she's on here (in tastefully limited doses). Hi Auntie dearest! Σ:+)

Number nine.... (repeat a few times)

("Ninth" is a really awkward word. Nothing appears to rhyme with it. I cannot think of anything clever to do with it.)

The fact that my family finally has something in the works to get the %$@& out of these flatlands. No offense to my friends who live here, but this town has nothing to offer me — no jobs, no truly close friendships, never mind romance — nothing. Yay for change! And yay once again for my cousin, who essentially led the way to the new metro! In fact, most immediate family is at our destination this weekend. Hi family! Snuggle the cats for me!

For all in tenths and purposes:

We are living in an age where technology has made it such that quick, clean transit to different pieces of geography is very much possible and nearly always at hand.

This is, of course, a doubly-edged sword that requires a sure, steady hand.......

The eleventh in the room:

Given what my feed on here looks like right now, this must be Veterans' Day. Now, I've honestly never quite figured out how I feel about soldiers past or present. I'm sure historically a great many fought for things they actually believed in and were genuinely convinced that they, their nation-state, and their actions were right. I'm sure they generally don't deserve to be stripped of domestic dignities, as seems to be a thing in the political world here. And I realize, from the back of my mind, tales of my grandfathers fighting in the second "world war", an event that is probably more talked about and referenced in culture and contemporary life than any other.

So in an effort to keep my offense to a minimum, I will respectfully acknowledge everybody who played a role in shaping the world into something we can recognize today (It's not easy). I wish you peace, love, happiness, and perhaps even some *tangible* survival benefits.

See for your twelfth:

This is my parents' wedding anniversary. We celebrated with a nice meal out this past evening — stuffed mushrooms, calamari, salad, shared entrees including creamy rigatoni and chicken piccata, crème brulee — majestic stuff. We celebrated the evening *before* the actual day, because later today, my mother must leave me, father, and the dogs alone for a while to look after *her* mother, who lives on rather a different continent. So the time seems just appropriate to dedicate an entry in my "thankful" series to the folks — especially..........Mom.

Mom is undoubtedly the brains of our little three-piece vehicle in the cornfields. She has our finest financial sensibility; she seems to instinctively know all the little things in domestic life that simply don't come naturally to father or me; she showed the lion's share of interest in and attention to me as I developed; she "sure can cook!"; and, as we and time have evolved, she greatly splits with me the task of looking after father (while she still looks after me to an extent).

We don't always see eye to eye on things. She still scoffs at the "Cheshire Adams" moniker; I suspect she always will. Our world views and basic philosophies are forever at odds with each other. Our mutual tastes are next to nil beyond the realm of food. But at the heart of the matter, she's kept me sheltered, fed, clothed, and comfortable. And those are pretty damn advantageous qualities.

So here's to Mom, a 'Book dweller among my friends here. I bid you a safe and pleasant journey across the globe, as well as health to Grandma and everybody. I'll be waiting for you over here......alone.....with father......and the dogs......and.......



OH GODS PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME

Lucky thirteenth: Mother is at grandma's place intact. Yay!

Fourteenth or againtht them?:

A bot cannot replace me.

Σ;+)

(Editor's note: At the time of the fourteenth entry, the 'Book feed was flooded with people playing with an app called "What Would I Say?" that read the users' statuses and produced mostly nonsensical word strings based thereon, signed "-[user]bot".)

Out of my brain on this fine fifteenth:

A day shall come when I will never again have to do suburban yard work.

Sweet sixteenth:

Hugs.

Most any time I can get 'em, I'll give 'em. This culture is nearly devoid of friendly physical touch — much to its detriment, I firmly believe. We're hardly close with anybody anymore. Physical proximity just may promote mental/spiritual proximity. And if nothing else, it's something I can give in the absence of items or funds.

(Conceivably related note: family Thanksgiving tomorrow! Yay!)

Edge of seventeenth: These all-too-elusive *joyous* family gatherings.

(posted a considerable number of hours before the event, so that I may be enjoying the actual event rather than checking into cyberspace all throughout it. Ya dig?)

What I eighteenth:

Cranberry sauce, pickles, dark meat, shrimp, pasta, cake, pie, chocolate, and all other edible delights.

Thanks also to the family and friends that allowed me to partake in festivities this past day!

Nineteenth new-Facebook-down:

Music.

I can't imagine too many of you who are friends with me requiring an explanation of this, so suffice it to say that life would suffer greatly without it.

Where you twentieth (h/t EJ):

A follow-up to yesterday's entry: The fact that, so far, I have been able to freely engage in discovery and sharing of musics without legal consequence. Supposedly, some countries have essentially banned music altogether. So far, this country has managed to fight the suits to an extent. Keep it up.

Also, that there have been people with whom to share and discuss music in cyberspace. My tastes tend to not grant me many friends in physical proximity.

Here, for instance, is the song I reference in the heading, a light psych affair from Norway. Enjoy while you can; there's a message on the top of the page that reads "Hi, United States JUZP is upgrading. music will be filtered. sorry for rare interruption". (But I do assure you, Kaspersky doesn't mind the common site among Google Video search results.)

Twenty-first (Ambrosia):

One more in the music section: Not only that I can indulge in the music of others, but that I have also been able to craft a certain amount of original material. This, to me, definitively states that I am a unique being — passion incarnate — rather than a clone who accepts whatever trash the powers that be have decided is popular and right. Whose was that quote about having created something? It's made the rounds on here often enough. It's something like that. Create! Firmly establish yourself as alive in this world!

Also, natch, the contemporary technology that allows me (and many) to upload my recordings to a place where they can be heard anywhere there is internet. Given the heading, I cannot resist linking to my relevant song here once again......

Twenty-second to none:

This.

The only dog I ever cared for.



Twenty-third in the punchbowl:

I sense this series has worn thin. Either I'm running on a premise that was stale two years ago, or I've bared maybe just a little too much of my inner mind. So for your Saturday, I nominate feedback and honest discussion, wherever and whenever it may be offered. Too often we, as a species, ditch the truth in favor of "politeness" or some such thing. Truth is, there is absolutely nothing polite about silence as a response to a thought. Anyone who responds with silence may as well not exist. And lying through your teeth (or keys, or touchpad) is just bad for everyone. Speak your mind. Don't hold back. You look fat, and that's perfectly fine.

Packs of twenty-fourth:

Warmth.

Physical or personable, I thrive on 'em all. These flatlands are a bit short of the physical on this late November day; luckily, our house has nicely functioning heating. And I suspect you all know by now what I think of this country's overall personality these days.....

Twenty-fifth to serve:

Laughter. Science-proven natural medicine. However downward we may spiral, we must always remember (how) to laugh. Beware the ones who lack a sense of humor; they are a certain ticket to misery.

Here is a YouTube channel that features just about the entirety of the UK Whose Line is it Anyway (and related shows), a show that picks up after the first two or three seasons and is much less rigidly censored than the US version.

By the way, what makes you laugh? Comment away!

Twenty-sixth and tired:

I don't feel the pressure of deadlines and strict following of artificial rules, and so on days like this when my brain is a blank, I can post something quick and stupid like this. Or nothing.

:+)~

Twenty-seventh heaven:

Cats.

'Nuff said.



Twenty-eighth — Chanukiving, or Thanksgivukah, or "I'm not prepared for this!":

Just before I posted the link to this article yesterday, I tweeted the author, "To put it simply: Thank you for that piece." He courteously responded: "You're very welcome. Thanks for the thanks." And that just seems about right. So, for your once-in-seven-eons celebration today, I nominate for ...."Chanoveming"? (Thanksgivember + Chanukiving.... I dunno. Ain't portmanteaus fun?)......

Gratitude. It's easy to lose or forget in contemporary society, where everything is relentlessly slung at you in mass quantities. How do we react when we're stuck in traffic in our cars with climate-control and high-definition audio systems in a spot beyond cell phone signal reception? Or when a long-time bug-and-incompetence-plagued cyber-hangout that we frequented nonetheless is shutting down? How do we treat the conceivably imperfect families that took us in and accept(ed) us?

Some food for thought to accompany the food for the twice-over holiday.

Happy travels (I'm about to see to my own),
~C.A.~

Tie-dyed (not black) twenty-ninth:

A certain wit and wordsmithery. It's gotten me bugger-all in life beyond cyberspace so far, but it is such good free, noncommercial fun, ain't it?

Down and thirtieth:

Finally, in a moment of blatant pandering, I would like to acknowledge all of *you* for keeping me entertained and relatively sane in these trying times that don't have to try very hard, and for at least putting up with this Thanksgivember nonsense and some of my politics revealed herein. I don't have many places I can go, so it's nice to have a friendly virtual place.

I know you're sorry to see this series end, so I'll ask you: What would you like to see from me in your cybertravels? Little observations? Youtube Facebook DJing? Words and links of sociopolitical conscience? Or maybe just bad puns and cat pictures? Clue me in if you have a preference.

Decent December, descendants! (h/t Wim)

Monday, October 21, 2013

Ten days to Halloween. Or is it "Hallowe'en"? Whatever it is, it allows certain novelty shops to exist in buildings that used to contain renowned chain stores. There's a meme floating around that shows one in place of what used to be a major Tower Records installment. Whether that's true or not, I don't know, but in my town, the former Circuit City building and the former Blockbuster Video building are now both Halloween "Spook-taculars" or some such play on words. Novelty shops make a pleasant disguise for the scary reality that is our gop-led country and economy, don't they?

"Spook-tacular". I'm awfully sick of these Halloween-themed puns. It's the same ones every year. Halloween's no fun anymore. Everything's been sanitized. Can 27-year-olds like me trick-or-treat? Probably not. Cops would be on me like Anthony Weiner on a mobile device. Or something. I used to be better at hip celebrity/politician jokes. But it's a shame; I think an adult desperately seeking free candy in a bad economy is wonderfully spooky and in spirit. Also a shame that I have no costume party to go to this year; I'd rent a suit and go as a gop. Just as well, though; I ain't got the dough to rent that suit.

Here, have a photo from last year's party instead. The "pharaoh" is a long-time friend and classmate's brother. I didn't really have any ideas, so I just took my old black cape that I've had since I was small enough to trip over it, stuck it over my best tie-dye Dead shirt, and called myself "Super Outsider".



Back to the future, which is murder. ("Live in London" version there; tremendous release, LiL.) How 'bout that government shutdown? I don't have much to say about it myself; it's all fast become a blur to me. Sequester, debt ceiling, shutdown, stalemate, congress — all these words are just noise now — like a parade of garbage trucks on the other side of the front door except nonessential. (Get it?) Things are bad; I know it. I don't have hopes the least bit high for myself when I go to test for a temporary, non-social job on Tuesday, let alone anybody else for longer periods.

Ah, but haven't I whined on here enough about my distaste for this anti-social, roboticized, outsourced western society?

Something I've noticed lately is this:

Almost everybody I encounter, be it in person or via media images, their faces look almost exactly the same. Same features, same demeanor, same style of movements — male or female, black or white, senior citizen or six-month-old. I don't know how well I can describe this face, or expression; it kind of seems like the wearer is in a deep haze of thought — one from which it's highly dubious that they will ever emerge. Often their mouth is hung slightly open; their head smoothly and very slowly bobs. I have no idea what this means, if anything; it's only the last couple weeks that I've really noticed it. Just a passing thought, perhaps, that I'm passing along to cyberspace with the fantasy that a fellow traveler will know exactly what I mean and excitedly say so.

These are the thoughts that flit through one part of my head as another feels nasty sinus pressure that helps prevent me sleeping.

I bid you as pleasant a Monday as you can experience in your current circumstance.

Is Feedspot a thing?

If so, and you're from it, please comment here.

I want to know that people are out there.

Spin (draft)

Country dawn
illuminates a scene familiar
rolling on
and ever slowly getting hillier

naked eye
will not suit up and scour this landscape
find out why
its trail would want to make an escape

pioneers
figments of a mass dreamt past
it disappears
these phone translations never last

big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
spinnin', spinnin'
in the mud

room to shout
with none to hear or heed the call
too far out
alike its host revolving ball

big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
spinnin', diggin'
in the mud

too blind to know it's stuck in place
unfed it just keeps on with its race
keeping up its frantic pace
the motions slowly wear away its face
without aid it soon will be erased
senselessly lain to waste
if there's help, it must make haste
someone, bestow your grace!

naked, I
will not fare well and likely perish
left to die
alone within this evening fairish

country dusk
renders all a single item
flea or husk
they hurtle on into the night

big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
spinnin', diggin'
in the mud

big wheel keeps spinnin'
keeps on spinnin'
diggin' deeper
in the mud..........

I Got Dem Ol' Isolation Blues Again, Mama

(Mom, for once, try to read past the fact that I mention you.)

For those who have never met me in person, I occasionally meow.

Just like a cat, yes. Sometimes I'll meow just quickly as a reaction to a minor, unexpected stimulus. Other times, I'll give a friendly *rowr!* to the family as a short way of saying "I'm awake, sort of; Hi!" Sometimes I'll hiss in moments of passing irritation. And, sometimes, I'll meow loudly and repeatedly from the other room as a reaction to a major, twenty-seven-year ongoing stimulus. A few minutes ago, before I started writing this thing, was one of these latter times. After a few vocalizations, my mother said from the other room, "Why are you behaving like a cat?"

I was in bed, for having nothing else to do and no place to go and just being depressed, and it took me a moment to think of an answer for that question. The one I came up with was this:

I guess I feel denied status as a member of the humans, so I'm trying something else.

I wasn't invited to my family's dinner out tonight. They went with their friend in the only car I could drive, not long after my mother had asked me "Why don't you go out tonight?". So I stayed here, fed the dogs, and went for a sleep as I marinated some more in the knowledge that I am completely goddamn fucking alone.

Cyberspace just ain't cuttin' it. I need people. Close friends. I have no siblings. My only direct cousin is a six-hour drive away in a car I don't own. No one's hiring me. Never had a really close friend growing up. Maybe three or four casual friends at best. The average 27-year-old seems to have a job, a spouse, their own place, and maybe even a kid or two. I've never even had a girlfriend. I did have a minor job twice and a fraction, but no more.

I haven't posted anything purely autobiographical in a while; I'm sure all my readers have missed that. Here's where we (my family and I) supposedly are now:

My folks are aiming to move to a retirement community in the greater Nashville metro. "The 615" was selected because it's where my cousin lives (albeit way on the other side of the metro from the retirement community). It would — will? — be my greatest pleasure to not live in Bumfuck, Illinois anymore and actually be within earshot of a major downtown. Here's the thing, though: it won't be until next spring at earliest — if it happens. For all I know, we may lose on the bidding on the lots, which happens this coming month. (Parts of the community have not yet been built.) Then there's my undecided aunt, who might move into the same house, get a separate house in the community, or possibly just stay in Chicago; this will affect finances. But, any way you slice it, barring actual help from my cybercommunity, I'm stuck right here in nowhere at least until probably April, with no place to go and no one to connect with when I get there.

Earlier this week, I did actually try stopping by my old university "sanctuary" across town — the disability "rehab" center, where I worked for two years until I could no longer actually work at the computer. It's a shame; the people there were, and by and large still are, friendly and great. But though we worked in the same room, we didn't really work together most of the time, and my will to work alone just tanked. Since I seem to lack a natural social life, I need a social job to balance myself. Anyway, there were and are good people there, to the point where there was frequently dessert available. This past Monday or Tuesday (I forget which) was no exception; a more recently hired employee whom I hadn't met yet had brought in cake. With fondant — but cake nonetheless. Further talks with everyone revealed the reason for the cake: That employee had just ....... gotten married.

Married. Another one removed from my partner-selection pool in a happy ceremony of which I wasn't a part. Everybody and their mother is either getting married or otherwise participating in a wedding. The pictures intersperse sponsored posts by Facebook, music "videos", and pictures of food from my "food group" in my 'Book feed. That food group is chock full of playful, loose-tongued females, and I'm willing to bet my lack of funds that, despite the suggestive banter, every last one of them is married. (Edit: Yay, one isn't!) (Although, really, what single person is driven to cook a full meal for no one?) But, their marital status is moot anyway, because, guess what? None of them live anywhere near me. One's near St. Louis. That's as close as they come. This applies to everybody. They're either buried in the deep South or on one of the coasts. Why the hell do I keep cyber-befriending people on the coasts? When I see people going on about how beautiful and perfect it is by the bay in California, I feel a dull rage, thrashing somewhat like a distant kettle drum roll, or possibly like how I imagine ocean waves sounding as they wash on the shore below in a place that has "ocean", "shore", "above" and "below". And I want so badly to punch Brian Williams every time he gets sentimental about some New York institution that "SO MANY of us" have enjoyed, from the Sandy-ravaged Boardwalk to today's retirement of the Yankees' long-time closer. Why the fuck does the Yankees closer get to be on the national evening news? If it were the Cubs, would they grant him so much as a brief mention? Fuck the Yankees and all these self-righteous New York humpers. Save that shit for your local broadcasts. The rest of us don't need to see or hear you masturbating.

But I'm rambling now. At least in language. Maybe someday I'll get to "ramble" in a more physical sense. While I was discussing my situation — guitar in tow — with the friendly staff at the rehab center, a couple different people suggested that, when I get to Nashville, I just pick a spot on the downtown streets — Broadway ought to accommodate nicely — and pick at my guitar. I can't do that here, but I can most certainly do it there. See who salutes and how strongly. I also mentioned the possibility of trying that "Go Fund Me" site I've seen going around; my State contact was on board with that idea. If anyone takes that seriously, I can have at least *some* sort of income in this awkward time where, in the unlikely event that I do get hired here in the flatlands, I couldn't stay for long before moving to greener pastures, so to speak. Greater Nashville does seem to be rapidly growing. I don't know if it can match up to the coasts in terms of potential friends I can fully connect with, but, with luck, I can find out for sure.....

Couple other thoughts on the subject since I posted this almost two days ago:

After a couple months in the Nashville metro, the family plan is to put me in an apartment. Don't you love that word, "apartment"? I'm apart enough already. What I need is a "togetherment". But that's not a thing in this country, is it? It's not even a thing in our language.

It's that independence motif again — the undercurrent in Western thought and culture that other people suck and that there's no point in pursuing, nay, being, a counterexample. The likely mass self-projected belief that everybody is out to "get" us, which we use to justify primitively selfish behavior: hoarding all the goods we can in our spaces, and never allowing anyone else into those spaces because they will undoubtedly rob us blind and possibly lifeless, because that's what we apparently would do. So the shut-outs get more deprived and desperate, violent incidents spiral through the ionosphere, and nothing is gained but loss. Even now, in my tiny corner of the flatlands from which I type, I'm hearing more sirens from beyond the window than I've ever done.

And apparently I — we? — should just sit back, accept, and be one with, the vile chaos.

There was something else I wanted to say here, but it escapes me just now.

Love.

Thirst (Ambrosia) is recorded and available for listening and downloading!

It is tacked on to the end of the Demos set above!

(I also removed the live "Now What" and the eighteen-minute Dead cover; if anyone misses them, let me know.)

Unemployed on Labor Day (draft)

Oven heated frozen pizza
unemployed on Labor Day
no one's preppin' veggies or meats, I'm
unemployed on Labor Day
Chicago's hosting much too brief
downstate pounds me with grief
cannot lie or be a thief
unemployed on Labor Day

ain't worked since the day of Valentines
unemployed on Labor Day
that gig earned me five thin dimes
which didn't make it to Labor Day
Mothers' Day they called me back
learned it two months after the fact
feelin' like I might soon crack
unemployed on Labor Day

résumés spread like disease
unemployed on Labor Day
applications are a breeze
unemployed on Labor Day
wasted time and wasted ink
wasted mind and I don't drink
into madness I slowly sink
unemployed on Labor Day

can't talk to a human anymore
unemployed on Labor Day
cybernetics determine the score
unemployed on Labor Day
all the local pages redirect
to the same useless mainstream drek
with these machines I just can't connect
unemployed on Labor Day

unknown in a forgotten land
unemployed on Labor Day
forsaken by my fellow man
unemployed on Labor Day
next one to tell me GET A JOB
is gettin' motherfuckin' clobbered
hire me or let me sob
I'm unemployed on Labor Day

oven heated frozen pizza
unemployed on Labor Day
you know I'm tired of these low-budget eats, and
unemployed on Labor Day
city's hosting much too brief
country just pounds me with grief
if I lived near water, I'd kiss reef
I'm unemployed.....

Speak of it in a Soft, Sharp Whisper Some More

Good luck with this post. Certain amount of made-up language here. And that may be the least of my problems....

A while back, I took perhaps something of a risk and posted publicly about a most bizarre, possibly genetic, and delightfully euphoric phenomenon for anyone who, like me, gets it. What follows is just sort of an improvised disorganization of some further thoughts on the topic of what the 'Net has come to call "Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response", or ASMR. I just call it "meridian" myself, except on Twitter, whose format makes "#ASMR" advantageous. "Meridian" just sounds better than "a-ess-em-arr", doesn't it? Rolls off the tongue better, certainly.

One so-called "ASMRtist" came to follow me on the blue bird network. This is not someone whose work I had encountered previously, but unlike many people, most of whom follow me and then unfollow me a couple days later, she had the courtesy to respond when I sent her a greeting. (That's what I do when I gain a follower; I warmly greet them. I have thirty-six followers. I know the most recent one won't stay; they've not acknowledged my three-and-a-half-day-old greeting. Why do I keep getting sidetracked into people being anti-social on social networks? Ah, well...) Therefore, I took her to be someone worth investigating. I plugged in and donned my headphones, brought up her 'Tube channel, picked out a video that looked like my audio realm, and put it on.



Just short of 43 minutes. (By the way, I usually just listen to these meridian videos while they play and I look at other tabs. It's all about the audio; no reason to just sit here watching 'em. Eyes can be otherwise engaged all the while.) Maybe some gamers are actually paying wide-eyed attention to this material; an attractive, young female is whispering about their favorite thing! And that's fine; I will wholeheartedly grant that. But I do feel a need to say this: The meridian is quite strongly triggered in the beginning. However, as the video plays on, the effect diminishes, and by the half-hour mark, due either to natural exhaustion of whatever it is off which the meridian feeds, or to my own mind drifting into 2012 Appalachia or 13,291 Mediterranea and therefore away from the video audio, the meridian has gone for the moment, leaving only a sort of ambient audio piece I'm hearing, featuring whispers and the occasional click of a button or other item. Of course, ambiance can still be soothing in the more traditional sense; it's soft and gentle and capable of comfort. But the meridian, the supernatural euphoria darting yet beyond the reach of our human comprehension, has fled, to return another time soon.

A number of patrons of YouTube's "ASMarts" have chimed in with comments of gratitude, some claiming that the videos help put them to sleep. This is an interesting idea. The meridian-less, soothing ambiance that the, uh, "muggle" (unfortunate soul who doesn't get meridian) would get from the experience of listening to whispering (or tapping/crinkling/etc.) could certainly serve as a lullaby of sorts. (I just realized, a "lullaby" is "a" thing "by" which to "lull" to relative sedation. Ha ha.) But does meridian, when it happens, come with the standard hormones that could calm the person to sleep? In my high school, we had a choice between either physics or anatomy; I went with physics, so I'm kind of making things up about anatomy. But despite fairly frequently emerging from meridian indulgence (maybe there should be a word for "indulging in meridian", the way we have "masturbate" for "indulge in the pursuit of sexual orgasm"; "meristurbating"?) without feeling the least notable bit sleepier than before I clicked ►, I do have to wonder if the non-sexual upper-body euphoria is related to similar .....dopamine?.....releases within the body as with the traditional sexual orgasm. With traditional sexual orgasms, I usually — but not always! — do feel rather sleepy in the immediate aftermath. Or maybe that's because I tend to masturbate in bed, right before I'm aiming to sleep anyway, so it could be a bit skewed.* No, I still recall feeling sleepy in class during high school when having my private, hands-free sub-orgasm sexual euphoriae in my pants. Then again, why wouldn't I have been sleepy in class? Damn thing started at eight in the morning every friggin' weekday.

Meridian really does need some actual scientific studies. Control groups! Muggles and ....non-muggles. (Did we decide on a name for people who get meridian? I don't know.) Male and female. Young and old. Times of day. Intervals between meridian indulgences. See if there's a correlation between non-mugglehood and certain other selective genetic traits. Can non-muggles generally also wiggle their ears, or curl their tongue into a U? I can tell you that for me, just as I tend to feel meridian more strongly on the right than the left, so I am also better at wiggling my right ear than my left. My tongue curls nicely when so driven, and, for some reason, while I am right-handed, my left hand does the better "live long and prosper". And, I think we gotta compare personality types across the board. Are non-muggles ("meridianists"? "meridiots"? Help!) generally less violent than their unfortunate counterparts? You know, make orgasms, not war? Ahhh.....

Meridian needs scientific studies — if we can turn enough people on to the idea that the phenomenon exists. The very idea of it is still rather emerging, ever gradually, from our digitally collected conscience and risking making muggles bitter and angry. It ain't made its way into too many renowned publications, but I think it is, ever gradually, as I say, gaining momentum. Some of the 'Tube meridian community, according to one of the other videos on Donna's account, have evidently collaborated to produce a documentary about it. I recognized in that video one particular "ASMRtist" ⒜ whom I take to be the ambassador of meridian and its community to the world, and ⒝ whose videos I've most certainly enjoyed the most (often) since I discovered this whole technological revolution on the matter. I'll embed one of hers here: simple speaking and stereo close-up ear-to-ear whispers — in Russian, because, as with the German above, it's chock full of consonants, and the content of the words is like the points on Whose Line — it doesn't matter one bit. Also, it's significantly shorter than the above, at a mere 12.24. (Again, headphones are essential!)



Nobody so far triggers my left side like Maria. (Sounds like an old song, right there.)

Trying to think if there was more I wanted to say now while I'm on this topic. I can't stand reality television, but my mother gladly watches Big Brother, among other atrocities. I haven't talked at all explicitly aloud about meridian, but I did mention to Mom as I was passing through: "The one good thing about Big Brother is, sometimes they whisper." "What? What does that have to do with anything?" "I like whispering. Whispering is good. It's soothing." "[shakes head] That's one of the weirdest things you've said! You've said a lot of weird things, but this is one of the weirdest!" Yes, perhaps it is. Probably because, although I'm not about to listen to a Big Brother marathon with headphones (I know I said content doesn't matter, but please...), I have one of the weirdest phenomena in mind.



P.S. I wonder how I would react to an actual person whispering directly to me. Maybe....some day.....



Edit 2014-5-3: A third meridian post



*While there is no apparent sexual connection to meridian, I will often get one single meridian-style euphoric SHOT down my right side while I'm in bed and have just turned on to my side for sleep after sexually masturbating to climax. Actually, I'll sometimes run my thumbnails against the pillow and blanket right up by either ear while I'm in bed and "meristurbate" that way.

Au Naturel?

While crawling through my 'Book feed a few days ago, I chanced upon a friend's thread, all about whether or not women ought to ever shave any part of them — pits, legs, something in between — any part. I couldn't immediately think of something to say about it, so I went on with my unemployed day, dodging family and cruising in Street View. (Side note: I've actually discovered Geoguessr since I posted that link from May; however, I've momentarily taken a break from landing in Brasil every game and getting super-annoyed in Russia. I have nothing against Brasil, mind you; I'm sure it's as fine a country as one can find in South America. I just prefer a little more variety in my blind-drop nations. As for Russia, it seems rather a chaotic place. Driving there is obviously insane; even though Street View images are static, it shows. And I'm sure everyone's heard about them a fair amount in the news. They'll harbor the whistleblower Snowden, but they'll hard-labor-imprison most of Pussy Riot while they thrash homosexuals and the like in various manners. In my yearning for world travels, I think I'll pass on the old Soviet master.) ......Where was I? Women's body hair, right. And as I clicked down the winding road, something struck me. This became my comment.

*~*~*~*

I'm fiddling around in Street View right now, as I'm all too wont to do. At the moment, I'm in a piece of Appalachia. There are bits where the imagery wavers between old, low-def 2008 imagery and new, hi-def 2012 imagery. Aside from the vastly improved resolution, there are obvious roads that didn't quite exist in 2008. This is difficult for my life-long midwest-bound mind to grasp, but, in Appalachia, it is necessary to carve into hills to make room for roads. Most of the roads run through the spaces formerly occupied by the now-erased bits of hill, leaving all this exposed rock.

While the exposed rock at the roadside is a kind of exotica to me in the corn fields, it is also, when I get down to it, kind of bizarre. There's all this wonderful green around, and then, every last bit of a sudden, there's this odd wall of lifeless tan. As newly done as it is, there isn't a blade of grass in the whole thing — at least, until I get to where it isn't quite so new, and nature has started to reclaim that lost real estate at the roadside in its way. The newer exposed rock looks decidedly unnatural and a tad off-putting.

It rather reminded me of this thread, which I saw earlier. ★

Pointless Lament (draft)

The song took a little bit to write after the idea behind it started forming. It's still rather taking that bit. Here's what the lyrics look like as I head to bed couch. (As it happens, my aunt from out of town is here tonight and using what's usually my bed.)

Countless orbs in space
fortune may grant one
with all the right
sparks for life
a proper distance from its sun
and resources are abound
but filler's much more rife
chance may deliver
yes she may give her
self up for the sake of life

and it's a long long road between bases
relentless static grey
scattered semblances of oases
may distract you along the way
and there are miles of barren wasteland
where it seems like nothing's there
don't it seem like hard times drag right on
the good times seem so rare

Seven days a week
fortune may grant two
to pause your quest
take a rest
and do the things you wanna do
and the months pass by
before a high
holiday comes around
and then's your chance
to see your aunts
and everyone else you love from out of town

and it's a long long road between bases
relentless numbing grey
scattered semblances of oases
may dissuade you along the way
and there are scores of heartless zombies
separating folks who care
don't you see the hard times stretch right on
and the good times seem so rare

Billions of earth-bound souls
fortune may grant three
to cherish you
care for you
accept you as true family
you'll hunt for words of wisdom
among sheer droves of jive
in eons and eons of pure void
there's just this short time we're alive

and it's a long long road between bases
relentless static grey
enigmas behind kindly faces
may divert you along the way
amid the miles of barren wasteland
where life just seems so bare
don't you feel the hard times plod right on
while the good times seem so rare

yeah it's a long long road between bases
relentless numbing grey
scattered semblances of oases
just might help you along the way
but there are hordes of heartless zombies
masquerading as folks who care
don't it seem the hard times trudge right on
and the good times are so rare

Thirst (lyrics)

One of my usual isolated angst rooted pop-rockers.

A dog eat dog world
ain't got much place for cats
such cannibal animals
just ain't where it's at

where'm I gonna run to
where'm I gonna go
who will I meet there
will either of us show

This courtship
don't short shrift
leave me on my own
your grain waves
your brain waves
shake me to the bone

who'm I gonna turn to
is it worth the trip
I need full nourishment
more than just a sip

Ambrosia
nectar of the gods
Ambrosia
tie the ends and odds
Ambrosia
I ain't got a lotta time

Ambrosia
you taunt my mortal reach
Ambrosia
my sense of hope you breach
what holds ya
speakin' out is not a crime

this dog eat dog world
ain't for no one but the birds (and nasty curs)
we manifest at a test
of sheer power of our words (and we hope we're heard)

it's time we gotta act, now
for so long we've rehearsed
you recognize my needs
you can quench my thirst

Ambrosia
in my cones and rods
Ambrosia
tie those ends and odds
I told ya
pretty soon I gotta fly

Major-Minor (lyrics)

I still haven't quite figured out exactly how the music for this goes, but I can tell you that it's a highly Beatlesque piece, ideally played on a piano (which is not at all my instrument) and featuring copious slick musical references to the likes of Tintern Abbey, The Aerovons, Badfinger, "I Am the Walrus", some other things, and, as you may guess from these lyrics....."Hey Jude".

Hey Judas
don't make it worse
it's pretty bad
as it stands

your music
has scapes and verse
that belie
a crooked man

you waltzed into our hearts
with mass collections of the arts
you gladly shared
as though you cared

then we gave control you never had
and all since then we all too badly fared
we're past repair
what has you scared?

Hey Judas
please leave my skin
so I'll begin
to improve

'cause my mood is
so paper thin
it's prone to snap
right in two

the damage done, the havoc wreaked
you and the barkeep streaked
right down the hall
no last call

now I've got to say, your new dark days
your wily silent ways
of handling all
just appall
you just appall

where's the harmony (it's gone)
hear the harmony (in my song)
where's the harmony (all gone)
here you're harmin' me (what did I do wrong)

Hey Judas
yer scary mug
gonna get
counter-clocked some day

'cause your ass
is way too smug
and I sense
it's high time you paid

Aaaaahhhh
Aaaaahhhh
Aaaaahhhh
Aaaaahhhh......

"A lot of people would be thinking, 27, what have you got to complain about."

So commented a friend on the Silliest Ffourth entry, two down.

The sheer stagnation.

My own life seems to be going at a pace slowed to half the norm. My body is 27; that would put every other aspect of me to roughly 13½. I'm living in a small house with yappy dogs and parents that loudly and gracelessly snore, burp and obstruct. I have no job, and I have never had even a temporary romantic partner. All around me, everybody's getting married and having kids. Even this past day, the world, or at least the media, has gone gaga for royal goo-goo. (Why does America care? Hell, why does Britain care? Useless figureheads. Leave them alone! Man, this new baby's life is gonna be hell.) The rate I'm going, my body will be 35 by the time I get to be with somebody.

Everybody's getting married. One of my favorite old co-workers with whom I'm cyberfriends came up in my feed this past Friday as having her wedding; I'd known she was engaged, but I hadn't known the wedding date. Me, I managed to find a wedding that I could attend on Saturday, namely, that of my mother's best friend's daughter, whom I hadn't seen in rather a number of years. It was a small town wedding, just up 150 a bit, in a small church — low-key and fairly pleasant. Reception in the next town's American Legion post; food unremarkable but got the job done (I love me some pasta salad); cake curiously sweet and far too plain — no filling at all; music by and large horrendous. Also, I only got to talk to the bride and groom once. But other than the song that busted out with "LET ME SEE YOUR TITS", an overall decent and happy time. That feeling lasted through most of Monday.

So, back to jobless, isolated, lonely reality, wherein my new improved health insurance bill has arrived. I want to leave online social media for a while, but I have no place else to go. Dating sites require payment. I gaze helplessly at pictures of people with cats and food. I "Like" some of those pictures. One friend just found somebody. I dig that friend very much, and I hope it works for them. Somebody talks about all the frogs around. My mind produces a 404 page; I have never seen a frog in my life. Somebody else invites me to an "Event" at least a hundred fifty miles away from me. On Twitter, I follow Neko Case for some reason. She's single — yay — but all the posts about traveling do their best to persuade me to unfollow her. She and plenty of others speak of New York. Fuck. I put on something by the Diogenes Club and space out a bit. I play some obsessive rounds of Boggle against the computer; I win more often than I lose or tie. I destroy "bubbles" by matching three or more of the same color. I sign selected political petitions that have been e-mailed to me, never with my own name, address, or number. I play Freecell, in which I now have 940 wins and zero losses. I check in on this ... and its thread. It's gotten exciting. The music I'm playing is so dreamy as it's winding down. And then, from beyond the door to the room I'm in, the sound of another door opening. Skittering dog paws on the hard floor. Door closing. Human footsteps. Loud, repulsive burp. More doors. Fart. Piss. Decibels. Reality.

Or some semblance thereof.

Choice Chirps, Part I

I'm rather struggling of late to muster anything to post that won't make both me the writer and you the reader yearn deeply for the sweet, sweet caress of death. The same is true, I suspect, of all the rest of the Internet these days. With that in mind, I come to realize that I haven't done one of these short-takes roundups in rather a while. I hope at least some of these are as entertaining as they seemed when I originally chirped, or "tweeted", them. (Some have been edited and cleaned up in translation to Blogger.) Enjoy!

Why are they called "urban legends"? Aren't a bunch of them rural in origin and popularity?

Maybe doorknobs should be at eye level rather than elbow level. What did my elbows ever do to doorknobs? Huh!?

In this age of cursing and mud-slinging, nobody seems to call you a "doofus" anymore.

Where I live, Election Day just happens to coincide with "garbage night".

Cartoon panel yearning for illustration: a dog yelling RUFF RUFF RUFF RUFF RUFF, and a cat gently murmuring "Smooth."

You know a case of verbal diarrhea has gotten bad when it gets to talking about the other kind.

My father has what I call the Sadim touch. Everything he gets involved with turns to shit.

A "blockbuster" is now a wrecking ball that demolishes buildings that used to feature Blockbuster Video stores.

December: It's the most overplayed time of the year.

Parents: The playfully mocking way you pronounce certain things may be how your kid(s) will think they're actually pronounced. Apparently, "homage" is pronounced "ah-midge".

Social climate change: The theory that people are getting colder.

Tweeted by Jasmine Dreame: "The "why" stage of adulthood is so much worse than the "why stage of childhood."

Looked up "twitter" in the dictionary on a whim. It says, "to talk rapidly in a nervous or trivial way." (OAD, 2008)

Google+ emails my Gmail account. The e-mails land in the Spam folder.

Is anything other than wit ever "vaunted"?

Assorted anagrams for Cheshire Adams: "He has dire scam". "Her chasm aside". "Ham chaser dies". "Cash sad; hire me!"

Why do we choose to stop observing Daylight Saving Time during the time of year when we could use the extra daylight?

Supposedly Google has developed self-driving cars. Fuck that shit. Show me a self-functioning lawnmower. I'll gladly snatch that up.

Why is tupperware round? It's inefficient. It would store better as squares. Or right triangles. Or hexagons.

I wasn't looking at the ad. I merely heard: "Click to see simple inaction".

Eggnog ice cream or milkshakes taste much better than actual eggnog.

Turning over a new leaf likely won't help if it's from the same tree.

My father puts the "annoyed" in "humanoid".

He who announces that something must be done clearly doesn't intend to do it himself.

Things I miss about childhood: Standing on the base of the shopping cart, pushing it along with my foot, and riding it down the aisle.

If someone gets kicked out of a hacker group, are they deleeted?

Y'ever get a big thing of chocolate-covered raisins, pick out the Siamese ones, and separate 'em with your incisors before chewing? Sublime, isn't it?

Does anything other than corn come on cobs?

"I lost part of my earring; I hope I didn't drop it in the food somewhere." —my mother, while baking

"Spare ribs" sounds like they're leftovers, doesn't it? What are these restaurants selling us, anyway?!

I'm not even bothering trying to set something in stone. At this point, I'll be ecstatic if I can make an impression on "memory foam".

"The Itsy Bitsy Spider" seems to be a metaphor for people who keep living in flood zones.

It's really just a single oodle — not that much at all.

People I can do without: Social network users who snarkily imply that you should Google the question you just asked. I'm trying to be social, you bastards. That's what this thing is for. You are part of the problem.

Teach your children to say "pardon?" or "sorry?", because "loser says what."

The average human imagination can likely be approximated by the fact that only one world flag is non-rectangular.

Threw out cassette tapes
it wasn't my decision
This is not my home.

Because nouns.

dashing the wishes

Always remember: It's the little things that accumulate and erode you slowly and agonizingly.

Not all who constantly harp are angels.

far and tethered

I think I'm coming around to understanding "taking the lord's name in vain" being an abomination. I'm so tired of people who say "Oh my God" four times a minute.

Worthless endeavor
putting a single staple
inside the stapler

Idea yearning for illustration: "Doctor Who's Next", in which a TARDIS has replaced the concrete monument on which Townshend et al. have pissed. (Edit 7-18-13: Just had the brilliant idea of Google Image searching for it. Yay, results!)

Re the Beloit Mindset List: By now, Sonic the Hedgehog is old enough to have an obese toddler — powered by onion rings.

Also re the Beloit Mindset List: Fiat never existed in America before this year.

Nashville has an FM radio station that brands itself as "Hippie radio". It features hourly updates from Fox News.

"Turn up the Radio" came on at work, but it was nearly inaudible.

Why, as a species, do we demonize the end slices of loaves of bread?

Why also do we hold a glass that has a handle, not by the handle?

Trends I have seen on Twitter: "Scandal", "TheMostAnnoyingThingsInLife", "DontBotherMeWhenIm", "ThingsIHateAboutSchool". Talk about Bill Watterson's "excessively negative people".

How am I supposed to take seriously anything on a site called "SurveyMonkey"?

Where the grass is greener, it probably rains that much more.

They tell me the key to success is who you know. A midwestern only child of a day care worker and a loner bureaucrat, I guess I'm screwed.

We lose an hour to commence Daylight Saving Time.

Life's little moments: Blowing a hole right through the tissue.

So it turns out, a "speed zone" is a place to go slow.

The fruit I was eating had actual seeds! I want to get on the porcelain rotary phone and tell everyone!

Slow cooker: A device for torturing you with smells of things that you can't enjoy for hours yet.

I suppose it's "creepy" or some such thing if I go to play on the playground in the park.

The printer software offered to print the page that said I was almost out of ink.

Loitering: Because only rapists and child killers would want to stand outside in enjoyable weather.

Y'ever just lie in the darkness and watch the green and purple swirls as they perform the mathematics of the universe?

Clarifying lotion: It's this goop you can put on your body to make your body feel better.

Two things I can give away limitlessly: The finger, and orgasms.

So I guess non-GMO products will wear a "non-GMO" label, and we'll buy those.

I think "major" and "minor" scales are misnamed. Seems to me the most urgent messages use "minor" keys.

Some things I've never seen in real life: Frogs, snakes, somebody flying a kite. Much more where those came from.

Far too much of the chicken is white meat. Not unlike the country.

Here's something I don't much care for: store-bought sauerkraut with caraway seeds. I guess someone had a reuben on rye and got confused.

Perhaps life is more valuable when there is greater threat of its sudden end. (In other words, fuck safety.)

Quite telling, perhaps, that the phrase "I hope you're happy" is most commonly spoken and associated with bitterness and sarcasm.

Paying big bucks for
cheap lawn gloves. It's my hands that
got the raw deal

Sunlight rapes the shades
another fruitless day has
been thrust upon me

A picture of a tree
in a wooden frame

You can't negotiate with terriers.

Doctor Who caption in search of illustration: Psychedalek

Is it far-out to be down-to-earth?

Has there been an episode of a mainstream cop show where the cause of the crime turned out to be supernatural? It seems to me that this needs to happen.

I hope that wasn't
an itty bitty earring
the vacuum picked up

You don't meet too many Ursulas anymore. I think it's because Disney ruined that name.

I have a crack problem.

Knuckles, heel, elbows, neck — I crack 'em all.

Every Facebook user wants a "Dislike" button. Me, I'd prefer a "Be happy for them while wholly bitter that you'll be in no such place any time soon" button.

Songs used to go "do do do do do do do". Now they go "don't don't don't don't don't don't don't". (...wait, what?)

lunatic fringe benefits

Some useful information about me: I am a VERY sore loser.

Rehearse: To transport a dead person a second time.

Funny how some dogs that bark as loud as they do can be scared of loud noises.

Unemployment Valentine Candy Hearts: "Dole queue-tee"; "Be my reference"; "This gun's for hire"; "May as well take off the suit".

Why do we call it "dusting"? Shouldn't it be "de-dusting"? In my case, more like "de-hairing"....

Obligatory: A temporary existential plane, characterized by perpetual obligation to others until the time when a more permanent plane has become available. See also "life".

Silliest Ffourth, or The Decoration of "Independence"

I have been in an absolutely wretched mood of late. I turned 27 Earth-years old about a week ago — the age at which Jimi, Janis, Jim, and many other icons, musical and otherwise, fled this existential plane. I have a useless bachelors' degree that took eight years to achieve — or just under 26 years, if you count all the schooling and growing up before college — no hope of employment in a dead-end town, the finest writing skills that ever failed to gain a following beyond a very small circle of cyberfriends,* a splitting headache from the onslaught of familial aggravation and yelling in a small house with greater acoustics than ever thanks to the replacement of carpet by hardwood, and, after my mother told me that I'm "debt-free", I got a thing in the mail that informed me that my bi-monthly health insurance payment is hopping up to $286 and change. For my reader (-s?) outside the US, that's right; my mere existence, let alone its continuation, apparently requires me to forever cough up dough in increments, because if something horrendous happens to me, I will not be allowed to just die and escape the madness, no matter how limited my contributions are to endless menial errands and half a gigabyte of scribbled lines. I'm unallowed, and I'm feeling mighty unappreciated. I don't even get a word of criticism most of the time, save from my mother who complains that I keep making fun of her; people "unfriend" me without so much as "goodbye", or they ignore me. One person in Portland seems to appreciate me quite well, but suffice it to say that the idea of going to them has perished. And I may not be far behind.

Be it personally or (inter)nationally, I gotta say, independence is bullshit. On the national scale, we in the US have run ourselves into the ground and will soon be buried six feet deep there. Everything is outsourced to....other countries. (Including pop stars from Britain, I might add.) That's not independence. Employing our own people to produce our own goods on our own soil would be closer to independence. No doubt we'd still be making treaties and starting unnecessary wars with other countries, but it would be a start.

As for the personal level, I'm not even sure where to begin. We make a big enough deal about it. I hear it from my parents; I have to be independent! They won't support me forever! Nobody will support me! I have to support myself! Nobody will hire me! I have to support myself! Nobody will host me! I have to support myself! What, do I build a house out of wood and mud, with my bare hands? Do I grow my vegetables in the roof of that house? Where do I build that house? The whole country's divided up into other people's properties. I'll be shot and/or arrested.

With the possible exception of some radical guys in Montana — or so I've heard — nobody is really independent. At the very least, we have to deal with others to get the goods, materials, and decorations we need and want. And even before we get to an age where we can do that based on our own decisions, who among us can claim that they raised themselves as children, without anyone around to teach them what things are, reach the snacks off the top shelf for them, prevent them from stuffing that mud and those creatures in their face, et cetera, et cetera? Hell, our being born in the first place is dependent on at least one other person! We don't just pop out of thin air; we pop out of another human! And, thanks to our grotesquely fucked-up evolution, even she can't conjure you alone. At least one other person needs to help with a normal, natural delivery, which I understand is superhumanly painful for her. And how about that increasing number of cesarean births? How many people does it take to surgically remove someone from their own umbilical cord? Not to mention that the mother didn't impregnate herself. Unless she broke into a sperm bank at night. But even then, she didn't build that sperm bank alone. I should think it very implicit and inherent in our biology that we are inexorably dependent on each other.

So why this crushing "independence" mindset? Outmoded macho bullshit, mixed with the greed of those special few who never outgrew that bit of childhood where the kindergarten teacher tried so hard to get you and the other kids to "Share". Those stupid, uncooperative brats ruined everything for the whole class. The whole working class.

We depend on each other. Some in certain ways, some in others, some unfortunate souls on life support completely and terminally. If the family or hospital goes cold and pulls the plug, they're gone. We're humans, and physical care is not enough for us. We need emotional support — love. We need to know that our existence has value, even if it's merely local. And by "value", I don't mean financial. If money is your primary concern, may I say this: It's humanity, stupid!

That seems such a perfect ending, right there. But I got to thinking about something I read recently on the Good Men Project, an intriguing site whose publisher somehow came to follow me on Twitter and still does. Apparently I've reached a point in my feeling of loneliness that I'm reading mating/dating articles. Anyway, one of them said something akin to "you're not looking for a partner; you're looking for a caretaker." Yes. Yes I am. And she should be too. We take care of each other. That's what we're supposed to do.

I bid you an American Fantasy Day full of happy festivity, delicious food, and well-guided love. Make it happen.



*Lucy in Cyberspace's official followers remain at three after some five years and change. I still have no idea who Daniel is, which could be the tiniest spark of encouragement. Daniel, looks like you're near Chapel Hill. You don't happen to know Rockin' Ammonia Karaoke, do you? Also, Hi Mond_licht! Long time no interact with. And Type, great to have you. Otherwise, I get a very occasional comment from the likes of Momo and Beccabear. And Tucker, I think. Love you folks to bits.